


A Difference of Opinion

by AwkwardAnnie



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Arguing, M/M, Making Up, Woeful Damage to Innocent Furniture, mention of past Sauron/Thuringwethil
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-18
Updated: 2015-10-18
Packaged: 2018-04-26 23:47:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,018
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5025406
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AwkwardAnnie/pseuds/AwkwardAnnie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Melkor has a plan. Sauron disagrees. </p><p>Thuringwethil wishes she were somewhere else.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Difference of Opinion

“…and the remainder of the host will advance from the west, here,” Mairon explained, and the little clockwork creature representing the orc battalions clicked steadily across the map behind the sweep of his finger.

“Are there any other routes down onto that plain?” asked his master, hunched over the map like a vulture brooding over a carcass.

The comparison was becoming more and more apt, Thuringwethil pondered idly; the proposed campaign had already been picked over by the war council for hours on end and there was scarcely any meat left on the bone whatsoever. Truth be told, she was not entirely certain why she had been invited to the meeting. She was only passingly familiar with the area in question, and of the tactical machinations of armed combat she had little knowledge and littler interest.

“There is a narrow pass between these mountains that empties onto the easternmost plain.” One long fingernail traced a winding path through the shaded peaks.

“How narrow?”

Mairon shrugged. “Five men might walk abreast, or three mounted.”

“Wide enough, then,” said Melkor with a nod of satisfaction. “Part a tenth of the force from the main host and send them down this valley.”

“I would not recommend it, my lord,” replied Mairon, winding another of his moving statues, this one a depiction of a Balrog with whip and sword raised aloft. “The mountains are heavy with snow; progress would be slow and the risk of an avalanche great.”

“Nonsense. Send fire-drakes ahead to clear the path. And I am sure that even Gothmog’s rabble might be persuaded to tread lightly.”

“The risk is still unacceptably high.” Mairon set down the Balrog on the map where it clicked and whirred to life. “They would better serve remaining with the main host.”

“An attack from the rear is worth the risk,” said Melkor. “Give the order.”

“The order,” said Mairon very slowly and carefully, “is inadvisable.”

A chill descended upon the table. Thuringwethil tensed. Around the table’s edge, several of the more astute generals did likewise.

The orc next to her leaned in. “My lady,” she whispered, “do we flee now?”

Thuringwethil quite liked General Raksha. She was brighter than many of her colleagues, though no less stubborn or foolhardy, having risen to her position by the unusual method of merely being very good at her job as opposed to the more common avenues of advancement, such as underhanded dealings or outright murder. It would be a shame to lose her so soon.

“Not yet,” she hissed back. “Too early and you risk redirecting their ire onto yourself. Wait for my signal.”

The tableau about the map broke as Melkor leaned forward and placed his hands deliberately on the table. “Do you question my authority?” he asked quietly.

“No, my lord,” said Mairon, not sounding the slightest bit concerned. “Merely your wisdom.”

He was treading a very fine line, Thuringwethil thought as she scanned the room for the easiest escape route. Melkor tolerated his lieutenant’s cheek, even enjoyed it, if Mairon’s sordid tales were true, but only to a point, and it looked like the Maia was stepping past that point right now.

“It is not your place to comment on my wisdom, Gorthaur.” There was a dark and dangerous edge to Melkor’s words. The introduction of one of Mairon’s less savoury titles was an ill sign indeed.

Not, of course, that Thuringwethil spent any great attention in examining the links between Melkor’s mood and his manner of address to his most trusted servant, but she had noticed that the lieutenant was Mairon when he had done well and Gorthaur when he had not. It was but one of the many diverting little habits that she had observed developing in her time spent in service to the Iron Crown.

She counted Mairon as a friend, inasmuch as she had friends, and had been much amused when he had first confessed the desire to bed their lord. Of course she had also been a little put out, since at the time Mairon’s preferred bedmate had been Thuringwethil herself, but the potential entertainment value outweighed the loss of the Maia’s intimate companionship.

And there had certainly been no shortage of entertainment. It was almost endearing to watch. Mairon had always clung to Melkor’s shadow but now they were virtually inseparable, and the best part was that it was becoming increasingly clear that it was not as one-sided as she had feared it might be. Whenever Mairon was abroad in the land tending to the business of the empire’s far-flung reaches, Melkor sulked around the fortress like a petulant child deprived of a treat, and though he blustered and bemoaned the loss of productivity the true reason behind his unrest was charmingly obvious. It almost made up for having to listen to Mairon’s shameless recounting of their various licentious deeds for hours on end without so much as an invitation to join in.

But despite (or perhaps as a result of) the pair’s ever deepening entanglement their fights, always unpleasant, had become increasingly more vicious, and the collateral damage accordingly more devastating. To be caught in the middle was to end suddenly and violently. Escape was the only option.

She nudged Raksha, then gestured subtly towards the space under the table, and then towards the door. The orc nodded, and Thuringwethil held up one spidery finger. _Wait_.

“I will comment when I see your wisdom fail you,” Mairon was saying, and though his voice was calm the furrow between his brows deepened. “I will not be party to your folly.”

Melkor’s hand moved in a blur and the tension was broken suddenly and violently by the sound of the clockwork Balrog hitting the far wall and exploding in a shower of springs and cogwheels.

“Treacherous little serpent!” Melkor snarled. “Ever you seek to wriggle out of your duty! You talk of prudence and patience but I see your cowardice for what it is.”

It was possible to pinpoint in his eyes the exact moment when Mairon snapped like the spring of his clockwork models.

“Cowardice!” He spat the word out like poison. “You are a fine judge, who has not set foot outside these walls in a hundred years.”

Face like thunder, Melkor reached across the table, caught a fist full of Mairon’s elegant robes and hauled him forwards. “You forget who is the lord of this fortress!”

“Indeed?” Mairon’s lip curled, and in the laugh that followed there was not an ounce of mirth. “What lord cowers within his keep and will not even deign to lead his own people into battle?”

Melkor’s vicious backhand caught him square on the jaw, the jagged edges of the Vala’s iron gauntlet leaving four bright red streaks across his cheek. Mairon staggered back, one hand raised to his face, and his fingers came away crimson. For a moment he seemed stunned, then a fire sprang into his eyes and his teeth bared in a snarl.

“Now!” Thuringwethil grabbed Raksha’s shoulder and dragged her beneath the table scant seconds before the world exploded over their heads. Maps and models clattered to the ground as something landed on the table with an echoing howl, and whatever it was that ploughed straight into Melkor and sent him reeling was no longer humanoid at all.

A hair-raising sixty seconds later the door of the war room was slamming shut behind them, driven home the last foot or so by the splintered remains of a chair. The other generals were already disappearing down the corridor on the basis that one oak door was probably not enough to contain two vengeful Ainur.

“ **What was it this time?** ” grumbled a voice, and Thuringwethil turned to find Gothmog wading through the crush towards them.

“A difference of opinion,” she said, “as ever.” Then her ears twitched and she stepped smartly to the side, just as the point of a javelin emerged from the woodwork at chest-height with a resounding crunch.

Gothmog sighed like tectonic plates settling. “ **I tire of this, Gorroval,** ” he complained. “ **This is the third in the last season alone**.”

“I am sure it is merely a passing phase,” said Thuringwethil without conviction.

There was a tremendous crash and the floor shook beneath their feet. Gothmog regarded the door warily. “ **Should we intervene?** ”

Thuringwethil grimaced. “I think not,” she said. “They can work this one out on their own.”

* * *

Melkor opened his eyes. Or, rather, he opened one eye, in the process discovering that the other eye was swollen shut, which explained the throbbing in his head. He was pleased to note that there was a nice sturdy wall behind him, because he would certainly not have been sitting upright without one. A cursory examination revealed at least one bruised rib—the perils of a physical form. There also seemed to be a certain quantity of blood, and he suspected that most of it was his.

There was a canine groan from across the room. A shaggy shape picked itself shakily up from the floor and staggered over, finally collapsing at Melkor’s side with a huff. One huge paw stretched out over Melkor’s lap, the claws still stained red, and the great wolfish head rested on top. It was a gesture of… well, not exactly submission, but at least a grudging acknowledgement that the argument had run its course. Melkor did not complain; all the anger and rage had fled for now, and instead the desire to bury his fingers in that beautiful pelt was too tempting to resist.

The fur under his hand was thick and soft, even if it was matted in places with his own blood. He teased gentle circles into the undercoat and was rewarded with a quiet whine. Slowly the grey fur reddened and lengthened until he was running his fingers through long copper hair, and the body sprawled next to him was no longer wolflike at all.

Sauron had definitely come off better in the altercation, a fact which Melkor attributed to his unfair ability to turn into an enormous warg more than anything else. It was difficult to bang your opponent’s head repeatedly against the floor when he had sixteen razor-sharp claws distressingly close to your softer, squishier parts and had temporarily forgotten that he had a vested interest in the continued well-being of at least some of those parts. Even so, he winced when Melkor’s fingers slid down the side of his throat. The bruises there would fade quickly, but for now they still stung.

“I liked that chair,” he murmured, voice a rough, scratchy rasp under his master’s fingertips. He was at his best just after their fights; loose and relaxed of body and sated of spirit.

“Then you should have caught it.”

Sauron’s laugh puffed warm against Melkor’s thigh. “With what? My mouth?”

“You might as well do _something_ useful with it, for a change.”

Sauron twisted around to give his master a look of mock exasperation. Then he frowned and sat up, shifted his weight back onto Melkor’s lap and brought a hand up to his lord’s face.

“How bad is it?” asked Melkor. He did not point out that Sauron was leaning on his bruised ribs; that seemed ungrateful, and in any case might have resulted in Sauron actually moving. Careful fingers tipped his chin up and probed the tender skin around his eye, and though he tried he could not help the hiss of pain. Then Sauron gave a snort.

“It will heal,” he announced dismissively. “You complain too much.”

“Always you must aim for my face,” Melkor grumbled. “It is as if you fear not being the fairest in this fortress.”

“There is no danger of that,” said Sauron with a sly grin, and before Melkor had even finished looking suitably offended the Maia had already put his impertinent mouth to better use. His lips tasted of blood and the sharp tang of magic, and Melkor was just about ready to forgive him for speaking out of turn—

“The pass is still inadvisable,” Sauron murmured against Melkor’s mouth,

_Or perhaps not._


End file.
